Trial by Fire
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke must help a young girl break a family curse. NB: Please read the 1980 dates in the story as 1979, due to events that take place in all subsequent stories
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Roarke and Tattoo belong to Aaron Spelling and Leonard Goldberg, creators of "Fantasy Island". But all the other characters herein are my own creation, with the exception of one historical character used in a fictitious context.  
  
This story is dedicated to the memory of Hervé Villechaize (April 23, 1943 -- September 4, 1993).  
  
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§ § § -- February 13, 1980: Honolulu International Airport  
  
She had already come a couple thousand miles as it was, and she was very tired and even a little discouraged. Her parents' and sisters' deaths were still recent enough to bring quick tears, but she took solace in the knowledge that she was fulfilling her mother's wish. It gave her enough strength to ask directions to Gate 18, the only one that could accommodate pontoon planes. The friendly attendant at the ticket desk explained where she should go, and suggested gently, "You'd better hurry, miss. The flight you want leaves in only fifteen minutes, and it's the last charter for today."  
  
"Is it far?" she asked pleadingly.  
  
"Not very." The ticket attendant smiled encouragingly. "You'll make it in time, but you'll need to walk fast."  
  
So she forced her exhausted body to move as quickly as possible. At least she didn't have to carry anything with her; she had only one battered duffel bag containing the few pieces of clothing she'd had with her the night of the fire, and that had been checked when she'd first boarded the jet in Sacramento. She saw after another moment that the ticket attendant had been right: Gate 18 was just within sight now. From somewhere she actually found the energy to run the last thirty yards or so.  
  
Presenting the little green pass that had arrived in the mail with her plane tickets, she was ushered on board a small pontoon airplane that seated about a dozen people at the maximum. She easily found a window seat and watched while luggage was placed in the cargo hold and a few other guests, all adults, filed quietly on board, all of them clearly lost in their own thoughts.  
  
A couple of Asian girls hove into view, racing frantically for the plane, both laughing. They came on board as the last suitcase was loaded, and after a last look the Polynesian attendant swung the door closed and barked something quick and unintelligible towards the cockpit. Minutes later the plane lurched away from the dock, turned in a half circle and then gathered speed, spraying a fan of water as it finally gained the air. She gazed on, her fascination eclipsing for a few minutes the doubts, grief and fears that had been her constant companions for some time now.  
  
Then she heard whispers and poorly stifled giggles, and turned to find the two Asian girls eyeing her. They all stared at one another for a moment, and she wondered what it was about her that they thought was so funny. "Hi," she finally ventured shyly.  
  
One girl broke into helpless giggles; but the other one elbowed her and said genially, "Hi, I'm Myeko Sensei. What's your name?"  
  
"Leslie Hamilton," she replied. "Are you going to Fantasy Island too?" At this the second girl broke into open laughter.  
  
Myeko shot her a glare. "Knock it off, Camille. Yeah, we live there. Maybe we'll see you around."  
  
"I hope so," Leslie Hamilton said softly. "I'm supposed to go and live with Mr. Roarke, and it'd be nice to have new friends."  
  
Myeko and the other girl, Camille, looked at each other, and Camille rolled her eyes. "What a joker. She's just another weekend fantasizer like all the rest." Camille finally looked Leslie in the eye. "If you believe that, then you know nothing about Mr. Roarke."  
  
"But it's true," Leslie insisted, despair filling her even as the words left her mouth. It was plain that neither Camille nor Myeko believed her. Both girls turned away from her and she sank into her own gloomy thoughts. There was plenty to think about, for it was up to her to break the Hamilton curse now that she was the last living member of her family on earth. But what would happen to her after that?  
  
§ § § -- February 14, 1980: Fantasy Island  
  
The doorless red station wagon with its red-and-white-striped canopy top braked at the end of a tiny dirt lane that terminated in a clearing on the edge of the island. Two figures, both dressed in white suits with black ties, stepped out. One was about six feet tall, gray with white temples, with a kindly but dignified look about him. This was Roarke, owner and proprietor of the world's most famous and most popular vacation resort, Fantasy Island. The other was considerably younger and shorter, about four feet tall with a thick mop of coal-black hair and lively dark eyes set in a round, friendly face. His name was Tattoo, and he had been Roarke's assistant for at least the last twenty years.  
  
The car pulled away and Roarke urged, "Smiles, everyone, smiles!" in a warm Latin accent. Tattoo came to stand by his side, and Roarke buttoned his suit jacket, glancing pointedly at his companion, who mimicked the action with his own jacket. Roarke made a gesture at the small band that waited nearby, and they struck up a lively Hawaiian-style tune while the attendants on the dock, about twenty yards away from the small rise on which Roarke and Tattoo stood, pulled open the exit door to the pontoon plane.  
  
First to exit was a rumpled, bespectacled young fellow who peered myopically around him as he ventured down the dock to terra firma. "Looks like a computer geek," Tattoo remarked in a heavy French accent.  
  
Roarke gave him a mildly reproachful look. "He does work with computers," he allowed, "but . . . well, perhaps you are right, my friend. At any rate, Mr. Eugene Clarke tells us that he has finally realized that even the most intelligent computer is no match for human company -- particularly female company."  
  
Tattoo rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me, let me guess. He wants to be irresistible to women for a weekend." At Roarke's nod, Tattoo sighed deeply. "Oh, boss, not another one of those. They're a dime a dozen. Can't we have some really exciting fantasies for a change?"  
  
"If you are looking for 'exciting'," Roarke said, amused, "then our other fantasy should be of some interest to you." He gestured toward the uncertain blonde teenager picking her way down the dock. "This is Miss Leslie Hamilton; she is nearly fifteen years old, and she is a recent orphan from Susanville, California. Her parents and two younger sisters were tragically killed in a house fire just two months ago, leaving her the sole survivor. She has not a single living relative left in all the world."  
  
"Poor kid," Tattoo commiserated. "So what's her fantasy?"  
  
"To break an ancient curse," Roarke told him quietly. "A curse that reaches back nearly three hundred years . . . and has destroyed her entire family."  
  
Tattoo was silent for a moment, studying the girl who now stood with a glass of ginger ale in one hand, staring at the thick carpet of green grass under her feet. "Suppose we help her break the curse. If she has no living relatives, and she's only fourteen years old, where's she gonna go then?"  
  
Roarke smiled enigmatically. "That remains to be seen, my friend." Before Tattoo could comment any further, a young man bearing a tray paused in front of them, and Roarke lifted a glass from it and raised it in salute. "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The flight had turned out to be an overnighter, and Leslie had finally fallen asleep long after dark. She slept through the first plane landing shortly after sunrise and would have slept through the second one if the Polynesian steward she'd seen when she boarded hadn't shaken her awake just after they'd taken off for another part of the island. "Miss, soon it'll be time for you to disembark," he had said, and gone away without waiting for her acknowledgment. The second flight lasted less than five minutes, and before long she was following a tall, skinny, nerdy-looking guy down the wooden landing dock and collecting a couple of leis. Someone handed her a glass of ginger ale, and she stood drowsily staring at the ground, trying to focus her stubbornly bleary eyes. She was so sleepy that all she could think about was wondering where those two Asian girls had vanished to. They must have gotten off the first time the plane landed.  
  
Then a pleasantly accented man's voice called out in welcome and she looked up, squinting at the gray-haired man in the white suit. Aha . . . so THAT was Mr. Roarke. Mom had told her about him a few weeks before the fire and insisted that she must trust him, because he was the only person who could help her. Leslie hadn't been able to pry any other details out of her mother; and now that Mom was gone, she was going to have to trust this stranger whether she wanted to or not. 


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- February 14, 1980  
  
Leslie had been shown to a tiny two-room bungalow, where she collapsed onto the bed and slept for another two hours. The ringing of a telephone woke her up, and she ran out to the other room to answer it.  
  
"Hello, Miss Hamilton, this is Mr. Roarke," said the voice she remembered from earlier that morning. "I trust you feel better now after getting a little extra sleep?"  
  
"Yeah, I think so," Leslie said shyly, "but I'm really hungry now."  
  
"Understandable," Roarke said. "In that case, I will send someone over with some breakfast, and then I would like you to come to the main house. There will be a car to pick you up, all right?"  
  
"Okay," Leslie agreed. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke."  
  
"Not at all," was the warm reply. "Enjoy your breakfast." With that, he hung up.  
  
Within ten minutes Leslie was digging into a plate full of scrambled eggs, sausage, ham, two English muffins, and a small bowl of mixed fruit on the side. A pitcher of orange juice had been delivered with the meal. Leslie was ravenous and cleaned her plate in less than twenty minutes, and was sipping her second tall glass of juice when there came a tap on her door. Another of the endless supply of pretty Polynesian girls poked her head in the door and said with a smile, "Time to see Mr. Roarke now, miss."  
  
Leslie gulped the rest of her juice and got to her feet, stepping quickly into her shoes. "Do you live here?" she asked.  
  
"All my life," the girl told her. "I was born here. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else."  
  
"Lucky you," Leslie murmured softly, wondering what it must be like to take this tropical paradise for granted every day of your life. From what little she had seen of Hawaii when she'd landed the previous day, she had been impressed by its beauty; but if Hawaii was pretty, Fantasy Island was downright stunning. The myths and stories that circulated about this place were so numerous that Leslie had no idea what to expect. Her mother had told her the island itself -- the flora, the fauna, even the very soil -- was supposedly magical. She had also remarked that according to some rumor she'd heard, all the flights from Hawaii to the island were overnight ones so that passengers couldn't tell exactly where the island was located. Leslie could easily believe that. Even if she had been able to stay awake through the night -- which she almost had -- it would have been impossible to gauge distances or locations in the complete blackness through which the charter plane flew.  
  
The main house was another surprise. It was built somewhat in the style of Dutch East Indies plantation houses of the nineteenth century, with a large airy porch running around three sides of the house, ornate woodwork decorating the ground-story eaves, a front-facing dormer with one window, and even a bell tower. A well-worn dirt lane curved around a small pond across from the house, and there was a little fountain just out front. The house seemed formal but welcoming; Leslie stood in the lane and stared at it, awestruck.  
  
After several minutes a door at the far left end of the porch opened and a figure in white emerged. For the first time, the presence of the small man really registered; she had been too sleepy and confused at the plane dock to have noticed anything or anyone other than Roarke. She watched, mouth hanging open, as the little man crossed to the steps and stopped at the top, staring right back at her for a moment.  
  
Then he said, "You must be Miss Hamilton. Hurry, the boss is waiting for you."  
  
Hesitantly Leslie approached the porch steps. "Um . . . who are you? Is it okay if I ask?"  
  
The little man's round face lit with a broad smile. "Sure you can ask. I'm Tattoo, Mr. Roarke's assistant. Come on in, so we can talk about your fantasy." He made a "come-on" gesture at her and she followed him up the steps, across the porch and into the house.  
  
From the inner door they entered a foyer, turned left and came down two steps into a large, high-ceilinged study with tall shuttered windows, shining dark-wood floors, elegant furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookcases loaded with all manner of valuable antique hardcovers along with several mysterious (and likely very expensive) sculptures and figurines. A stately grandfather clock held pride of place against the wall across from the desk where Roarke sat. Behind the desk, French doors opened onto a sunny flagstone patio naturally screened by tall flower-laden bushes. "Oh wow," Leslie breathed.  
  
Roarke looked up and arose from his chair. "Ah yes, Miss Hamilton," he said with a smile. "May I call you Leslie?"  
  
Leslie nodded, in awe all over again. "Your house is absolutely beautiful," she said artlessly. "This whole island . . . it's like something out of a fairy tale."  
  
Roarke's smile broadened. "Thank you, Leslie," he replied. "Do sit down. Is there anything Tattoo or I can get you?"  
  
Leslie shook her head. "No, I guess we should talk about my fantasy," she said nervously.  
  
"Yes, of course." Roarke sat back down and became all business; Leslie took her cue from him and settled herself uneasily into one of the two club chairs that faced the desk. Tattoo went to stand, silent but watchful, beside the desk. "Now," Roarke added, "tell me what you know about the reason you're here."  
  
Leslie folded her hands in her lap, interlaced her fingers, and gathered her thoughts. "Well, I do know there's supposed to be some kind of curse on my family," she began. "You'd almost think it was true. Every member of the family for generations has died in a fire of some kind. My mother told me a little about it. She said that when she and my father got married, she did some research, but she was able to trace back only about five generations, I think. Family lore has it that the curse dates back to colonial times." She looked up. "I'm not actually from California," she explained quickly. "I was born in Connecticut. The Hamiltons have always lived in New England, and my family was the first ever to leave the region."  
  
"What made your parents decide to move?" Roarke asked.  
  
"Our house in Connecticut burned to the ground," Leslie said softly, lost in the memory. "My grandmother was killed in that fire. We always called her 'mormor' -- that's Swedish for 'mother's mother', because she came from Sweden to marry Mom's father." She trailed off and swallowed thickly before regaining her composure enough to continue. "The rest of us escaped that fire, but we lost almost everything. I was only eight then. My father thought our luck might change if we started over in a different place, so when we got the insurance money, we moved to northern California."  
  
"And then there was another fire?" prompted Tattoo.  
  
Leslie nodded, and this time her eyes filled with tears. "Just a couple of months ago. The only reason I escaped that fire was because I was sleeping over at my friend Cindy Lou's house. I stayed with her family until my parents' wills were read and Mom's specified that you be contacted." Leslie shifted in her seat. "She never told me about sending me here. Do you know anything about it, Mr. Roarke?"  
  
Roarke cleared his throat. "I am sorry this comes as such a surprise to you, Leslie," he said. "But it so happens that your mother came here to this very island, just weeks before you were born, and explained as much of the so-called 'Hamilton curse' to me as she knew of. She understood that she and your father would become victims of the curse, and, knowing that you would be orphaned, requested that I see to your welfare until you come of age." Roarke took in her overwhelmed expression. "I have raised orphans on a few other occasions," he told her, "but you are undoubtedly the first one whose parents I was not previously acquainted with. Frankly, I would have refused your mother's request had it not been for the fact that you have no other relatives who could take you in."  
  
His stern expression intimidated Leslie and she seemed to shrink in her chair. "I'm sorry to be such a burden to you, Mr. Roarke," she murmured, face going deep red with shame.  
  
Roarke focused abruptly on her and smiled faintly. "I didn't mean to frighten you, child," he said kindly. "I apologize if I came across that way. Right now, the most important thing is finding out how to break that curse. Tattoo, would you kindly bring me that large gray book on the second shelf from the bottom over there? Thank you, my friend."  
  
Tattoo delivered the book in question and Roarke opened it, slowly turning pages and scanning as he went along. "What's that book about?" Leslie ventured timidly.  
  
Roarke glanced up at her for just a moment. "This is a colonial history," he said. "Quite comprehensive. It's true that we have very little information to go on, but you mentioned that the curse supposedly goes back to the earliest days of America. While I am researching the matter, suppose you take some time to enjoy yourself. We have a swimming pool for our guests, and you can also go horseback riding or rent a bicycle and take a little riding tour of this part of the island. I will contact you when I need to see you again."  
  
Leslie agreed and slipped out, trying to make as little noise as possible. Still very much intimidated by her hosts and completely unfamiliar with her surroundings, she stopped at the fountain in the dirt lane and sat on the edge, staring into the basin where coins from all over the world had been dropped in by people making wishes. Leslie's only wish was that her family would come back to life somehow. Never in her entire life had she felt so lost and alone. If her mother was right and Roarke really was supposed to be her guardian for the next six years, she feared that it would not be easy growing up under the watchful eye of a man who seemed to resent the fact that he had been burdened with her care. 


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- February 14, 1980  
  
Unaware that their young guest was sitting forlornly outside wondering what the next turn in her life would be, Roarke continued carefully studying the book Tattoo had given him. He became aware after a few minutes that Tattoo was fidgeting a little nervously, watching in silence but clearly waiting for something.  
  
"What's wrong, my friend?" Roarke asked.  
  
"I'm a little worried, boss," Tattoo admitted. "About Leslie. I think you kind of intimidated her a little while ago. She's not happy, and I don't think she's going to go out to the pool or horseback riding or to the beach. There's too much on her mind. She looks so sad, boss, and that's not right."  
  
Roarke smiled. He'd had any number of assistants since acquiring the island untold years before; but of them all, Tattoo not only had been with him the longest but had the biggest heart. As much as the diminutive Frenchman enjoyed filling the role of the playboy who would never settle down, there had always been a soft spot in his heart for kids. If Tattoo ever found the right woman, Roarke had often thought, he would make an excellent father.  
  
"Well, my friend," Roarke began thoughtfully, "perhaps you might take it upon yourself to befriend her a bit. After all, she will be remaining here on the island even after her fantasy is completed, and I am sure she would feel much more confident knowing that she had a friend here."  
  
Tattoo nodded enthusiastically. "Good idea, boss," he said. "Thanks, I'll go right now, if that's okay."  
  
Roarke nodded. "By all means," he said, and watched Tattoo leave the house. Once the door had closed behind him, Roarke returned his attention to the thick history book and continued to scan its pages for key information. When he finally found it more than two hours later, he realized immediately that a good deal more trouble lay in store for Leslie before she was finally free of her family's curse.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Tattoo was surprised to see Leslie sitting on the fountain's edge. "Are you okay?" he questioned, stopping in front of her. "I thought you'd at least be on the beach or something."  
  
Leslie shrugged. "I don't have a bathing suit," she said dully.  
  
Tattoo took a seat on the edge of the fountain as well. "I know you're lonely, and I know you must miss your mother and father very badly," he said slowly. "If it were possible for the boss to bring them back to life, I know he would do that for you. But even the boss can't reverse death."  
  
Leslie glanced up at him and murmured, "I know. But that doesn't make it any easier." She trailed her index finger in the water, stirring the clear liquid in figure-eights. "Besides, I don't think he really wants me here. He told me in so many words that if I had any living relatives, he wouldn't let me live here. I think I'm only going to be a nuisance. I'll just get in his way all the time and he'll wish my mother had never left it up to him to take care of me till I'm 21."  
  
"I don't think that's true, Leslie," Tattoo said gently. "I know he came across as very stern and maybe even reluctant. But you just got here and you don't know each other. Things will get better. And by the way, if you ever need someone to talk to, just come see me. I have a little cottage not far from here. You'll be living here in the main house with the boss, you know, but I'm never far away. Now, I haven't seen you smile yet. I bet you're pretty when you smile. You won't be able to keep the boys away from you."  
  
Leslie gave him a look. "Boys don't notice me," she said, but humored him anyway and smiled. "I guess maybe I should give myself a break and try to have some fun now before I have to worry about breaking the curse. Is that what you're telling me?"  
  
"You got it," Tattoo said and grinned at her. "Just because you don't have a bathing suit doesn't mean you can't go to the pool. It's a public pool and a lot of teenagers hang out there. Maybe you'll make some new friends. But you can't just mope around. If nothing else, it's really boring."  
  
Laughing, Leslie decided to take his advice, and went back to her bungalow to change into a tank top, shorts and sandals. The few outfits she owned had been either with her at her friend's house the night of the fire, or given to her as Christmas gifts by Cindy Lou and her family; so there wasn't much to choose from. But she looked presentable enough, and with high hopes she took a trail that led to the pool.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Roarke called Leslie to the main house that evening and suggested she have her dinner with him and Tattoo. When she arrived, she found her two hosts on the front veranda, sitting at a round table laid out with a generous spread of food. There was a third place setting for Leslie, who self- consciously slid into her chair, wondering if there was a reason Roarke had invited her to eat here with them.  
  
Not till they had all served themselves and were eating did Roarke speak. "So, Leslie, Tattoo tells me you spent some time at the pool this afternoon. How did that go?"  
  
"Okay," Leslie mumbled. She hated to divulge the truth -- that she had seen her two companions from the plane, and had been so spooked that she'd hidden behind one of the marble statues that were scattered around the pool area. No one else had taken any notice of her at all.  
  
Roarke raised an eyebrow and she knew he didn't believe her; fortunately, he didn't press the issue. There were more urgent matters to be dealt with. "I have done some meticulous research," he said, "and it so happens that 'family lore', as you put it, was correct. The curse did indeed originate from colonial days: specifically, Salem, Massachusetts, at the time of the witch trials. It appears that a certain goodwife accused a neighbor's household slave of being a witch, and this slave was sentenced to burn at the stake. However, as the flames were lit around her, the slave placed a curse on the goodwife and all her descendants for thirteen generations hence." He paused long enough to be certain he had Leslie's full attention, then continued: "The goodwife in question was named Mary Jane Hamilton; and the household slave was a Jamaican named Tituba."  
  
Leslie felt her appetite waning. "What exactly was the curse?"  
  
"As I said," Roarke explained carefully, "Tituba was burned at the stake. With her dying breath, she cursed Mary Jane Hamilton and her descendants to perish by fire, precisely as Tituba herself perished. Within the year, Mary Jane Hamilton and all but one of her sons were killed in a massive house fire. The remaining son grew up and had a family, only to perish with all but one child in a fire. And so on, down through the generations."  
  
Leslie stared at the plate in front of her, feeling oddly detached from everything around her. "So that's how it happened." Roarke and Tattoo watched her in silence for several minutes, till at last she gathered her composure and looked at Roarke. "Is there any way to break the curse?"  
  
For the first time that evening, Roarke smiled, and his dark eyes grew warm. "Yes, my dear Leslie, there is. But you will have to trust me without reservation. Can you do that?"  
  
Leslie regarded him for a very long moment. If it was really true that she was going to become the ward of this man for the next six years or so, she would have to put her trust in him anyway. There was no time like the present to begin. So she nodded solemnly. "I think I can, Mr. Roarke."  
  
"Good," he said. "The book explained that, for the curse to be broken, you must survive three fires." Leslie stared at him, eyes wide and face pale. "Come here to the house at sunset tomorrow evening, and we will do what needs to be done." 


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- February 15, 1980  
  
Tattoo stood by one of the tall shuttered windows in the elegant office of the main house and watched the sun sink behind the trees. Someone knocked on the door, and Roarke called out, "Yes, come in."  
  
The guest who entered was not the one they were expecting, however. For a moment all Roarke saw was Carrie Minton's head, her sleek black hair hanging straight down, her dark eyes wide with apprehension, her olive complexion unusually flushed. "Ah, Ms. Minton," he said warmly, his voice quizzical. "Is there something I can do for you?"  
  
"Yes," Carrie Minton replied and cleared her throat. "I could use a towel, Mr. Roarke. The biggest one you can find."  
  
Roarke's puzzled look lingered as he turned to Tattoo and prompted, "Would you bring Ms. Minton a towel, please, my friend?" Tattoo nodded and crossed the room toward the steps leading up to the foyer, but the woman let out a panicked squeak and shrank back behind the half-wall next to the door.  
  
"Don't come up here!" she blurted.  
  
Tattoo stopped in surprise. "But Ms. Minton, the bathroom's down that hallway," he explained, pointing, "and that's where all the towels are."  
  
"Is there a problem, Ms. Minton?" Roarke finally asked.  
  
Carrie Minton bit her lip and turned even redder. "Well, yes, there is. My Cleopatra fantasy ended, but . . . well, uh, since the clothes I was wearing were part of her era, they . . . well, disappeared."  
  
Roarke and Tattoo caught her unspoken implication at the same moment. Both Roarke's eyebrows shot up, and Tattoo slowly smiled. Smoothly he suggested, "Then why don't you come in and make yourself comfortable while I get you that towel."  
  
Carrie Minton gaped at him, and Roarke's expression grew very stern. "Tattoo," he admonished, low-voiced.  
  
Tattoo sighed gently. "Sorry, boss," he said with resignation, and deliberately turned away from their guest before climbing the steps and vanishing down the hall to the back of the first floor.  
  
Roarke cleared his throat, regained his composure and shifted his attention to Carrie Minton. "Was your fantasy otherwise satisfactory, Ms. Minton?" he inquired.  
  
She brightened. "Oh, absolutely, Mr. Roarke! I was really afraid I was going to have to deal with that snake, but your timing was perfect. Poor Cleopatra, what a life she led." The woman chewed briefly on her lower lip again. "I just wish I had thought to take a change of clothes with me. I'm lucky nobody saw me coming in here."  
  
Tattoo returned just then, holding the towel in front of his face to keep from peeking at their guest, and stopped a few feet away from her. "Here you are," he said and presented the towel. He began to lower it ever so slightly, until he caught Roarke's disapproving stare. Loosing another sigh, he squinched his eyes shut and turned his head aside for good measure.  
  
"Thank you," Carrie Minton said with enormous relief and wrapped the large white towel securely around her. Only then did she step fully into view. "Thank heavens my bungalow isn't too far away. I just wanted to thank you for making my fantasy come true."  
  
"You're quite welcome," Roarke said warmly. "Have a good evening, Ms. Minton."  
  
The young woman exited the house, and Tattoo came down the foyer steps and into the room. "Another chance with a beautiful lady, ruined," he murmured, half to himself.  
  
"You might have had a care for the lady's modesty, Tattoo," Roarke observed. "I'm sure she was quite embarrassed enough without you compounding the problem."  
  
Tattoo shrugged. "Leslie's late," he said, changing the subject. "It's after sunset. Maybe she lost her nerve. After all, you can't blame her for not wanting to endure a third fire."  
  
Roarke glanced at the grandfather clock across the room and closed the book he had been reading. "It is imperative that she do so," he said. "The curse can be broken only if the victim survives three fires. Leslie has already experienced two of them -- the first one in Connecticut that killed her grandmother, and the second in California, which took the lives of her parents and sisters. This time, the witch Tituba will attempt to kill Leslie herself."  
  
Before either of them could say anything else, the foyer door flew open and Carrie Minton burst in, still clad in the towel they had lent her. "Mr. Roarke, you've got to hurry," she cried urgently. "One of the bungalows is on fire. I saw it on the way to my place, and I think there's someone inside. I could hear screams."  
  
Tattoo looked horrified. "Leslie!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Call the fire department, Tattoo, quickly!" Roarke directed urgently, already crossing the room for the door. Tattoo sprinted for the phone and began to make the call; meanwhile Roarke brushed past Carrie Minton and departed the main house, breaking into a run once he had cleared the front steps. Within minutes he saw for himself that their guest had been correct; the bungalow in which Leslie was staying was being eaten by flames. The front door was still accessible, and he rushed through, calling Leslie's name as loudly as he could.  
  
"Mr. Roarke!" he heard her shriek from somewhere deeper within the bungalow. "Help me!!"  
  
The front room was still untouched, but he could see that the bedroom was almost fully engulfed. In three strides he had crossed to the bedroom doorway, yanking a fire extinguisher from the wall on the way, and assessed the situation in two seconds. Leslie was trapped by flames in a corner of the bedroom.  
  
"You'll never save the little brat now," taunted a woman's voice, flavored with a strange accent. "The fire's too advanced for you to put out with that puny apparatus, Roarke. She'll finally die, and my revenge against the Hamiltons will be complete at last."  
  
Roarke heard her, but Leslie's safety came first and he ignored the woman. "This way, Leslie," he called out, spraying a blast of foam at the flames that were advancing in her direction. The flame retardant cleared enough space for her to rush out of her trap and towards the safety that Roarke offered.  
  
Maniacal laughter floated to them over the roaring of the fire, and a wraithlike figure emerged from within the flames themselves, resolving into the recognizable form of a slender, dark woman. "Back off, Roarke, and let me have the girl," she snarled, "or you'll die too."  
  
"What do you want with this girl? She has never harmed you," Roarke stalled, simultaneously nudging Leslie towards the front door and escape.  
  
"I want revenge!!" shouted the strange woman as Leslie tried to sneak away without being noticed. "That girl's ancestor accused me of being a witch, and I mean to revenge myself on every last Hamilton till they're all dead. She's the only one left, and I won't have any peace till she's gone."  
  
Leslie made the mistake of halting in her tracks. "But you ARE a witch!" she protested.  
  
"I was NEVER a witch!" the woman screamed. "I was merely Tituba, a harmless house slave. But when Mary Jane Hamilton made that false accusation, I made a pact with the devil. If he gave me the means of revenging myself on every descendant of Mary Jane until they were all dead, I would become his servant."  
  
"Ah, but you do remember that there were conditions to that pact, don't you?" Roarke put in. "Satan plays tricks even on his favored ones, Tituba -- didn't you know that?"  
  
Tituba stared at Roarke; horror began to dawn on her dark, angular features. "What do you mean?"  
  
Roarke smiled. "There is a limit to Satan's patience, Tituba," he said. "Your pact with him allows you three chances per member of each generation to destroy them by fire. And what's more, remember, you have but thirteen generations on which you may seek your 'revenge.' Should you fail to destroy even one member of that thirteenth generation, you won't become a servant of Satan . . . merely one of his hapless victims. You will burn in Hades for all eternity."  
  
"No," Tituba gasped, realization clearly overcoming her. "No, it can't be!" And the moment she spoke, Roarke noticed that the flames behind her were diminishing. The fire department had arrived and was now dousing the flames even as they spoke.  
  
"You have lost forever, Tituba, and you know it as well as I do," Roarke informed her, his voice rising for Leslie's benefit. "The magic you were temporarily granted is no longer a match for human defenses. See how easily you are vanquished! You will never be allowed to harm this child or any of her descendants ever again, for Leslie is the sole remaining member of the thirteenth generation, and she has just survived your third and final attempt to destroy her. She has beaten you, Tituba!"  
  
The fire died behind Tituba and she let loose a long wail of despair. "You promised meeeee!!!" she shrieked, crumpling to the ground and breaking down into sobs. "You promised . . . " Without warning, a blinding blood-red flame exploded out of the ground beneath the witch, rapidly consuming her. Within seconds all trace of her had vanished, as though she had never been there at all.  
  
Roarke took a deep, cleansing breath, and then turned to the stunned girl. "Is it over?" Leslie asked in a tiny, timid voice.  
  
"Yes, Leslie, it's over," Roarke replied quietly. "You've broken the curse, and you need never worry about it again. You're free." He moved to her side, put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently, and Leslie smiled faintly at him, questions in her eyes.  
  
"What happens to me now?" she wanted to know. 


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- February 16, 1980  
  
Roarke studied Leslie thoughtfully once the weekend's guests had departed on the charter plane on Monday morning. "Well," he said, "there is the matter of your mother's wish that I raise you, now that you are alone in the world. As I understand it, you will soon be fifteen, won't you?"  
  
Leslie nodded. "On May 6," she said.  
  
Roarke sat back in his chair. "Island law provides that children reach full maturity at age 21, so that means that you will be officially under my care for the next six years. You will, of course, begin school once you are settled in, and perhaps during the weekends you might assist Tattoo and me with the fantasies. There are two rooms upstairs, and you may choose one for yourself." Roarke paused and regarded her for a long moment. "I think we will get along very nicely, Leslie, don't you?"  
  
Leslie smiled shyly. "I think so," she murmured. "At least, I hope so." She met Roarke's gaze hesitantly. "I'm scared, Mr. Roarke. I'm really afraid I won't have any friends. I . . . I have to confess something. Those two girls I met on the plane Friday night? Well, I saw them at the pool Saturday, and I was afraid they'd see me there, so I kind of hid from them." She saw Roarke stifle a smile. "Well, I mean . . . I told them I was coming to live here with you, because it's what Mom wanted, and they didn't believe me. One of them seemed friendly, but the other one wasn't, and when I told them that, the first girl stopped being friendly to me too. I don't remember their names now, but if I show up in school and they're in my class or something, I, well . . . "  
  
Roarke nodded. "I believe I see the problem," he said. "As your legal guardian, I'll have to accompany you to Fantasy Island High School to enroll you. Perhaps if I explained to the teacher whose class you become a member of, she might give your classmates a little background on you, and you can explain further if you so choose. You're a nice and attractive young lady, and I see no reason you shouldn't make friends."  
  
Leslie nodded slowly. "I hope you're right," she murmured, unable to keep from displaying her skepticism in spite of herself. Past experience had taught her that teenagers can be very cruel, and she was sure those on Fantasy Island were little different from those she had known in California. Deliberately she focused her mind on something else. "You'll really let me help you and Tattoo with the fantasies, Mr. Roarke?"  
  
Roarke's smile broadened into an amused grin. "That interests you, does it? Yes, there are times when we can use a little extra assistance. You can learn as you go along, and we'll start you out with small, easy tasks. Later, as you gain experience, I'll give you extra duties to perform. It would be a good way for you to earn an allowance, so that you can buy the kind of clothing you feel most comfortable in, and other things you need and want." He smiled, his dark eyes warm. "Welcome to Fantasy Island, Leslie. May your life here be a happy one."  
  
She smiled, her expression full of hope. "I'm already looking forward to it."  
  
THE END 


End file.
